


The Air I Breathe

by groovyhedgehog (GroovyHedgehog)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:44:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroovyHedgehog/pseuds/groovyhedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John reflects over a sleeping Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Air I Breathe

It was a strange feeling--like drowning, becoming one with a lake of water, then evaporating, rising until all that’s left is the cold, sharp embrace of a cloud as it floats languidly over the earth. John couldn’t think of any other way to describe it really, because watching Sherlock sleep was all these things and more. The man rarely ever slept as it was, but when he did, John found himself unable to look away. Everything inward, all his thoughts, emotions, feelings, his very self, was in a ceaseless state of movement, shifting, mingling, separating, twisting as his eyes rested softly on the sleeping man.

Sherlock’s full lashes brushed his upper cheek, fanning from soft eyelids that hid those fierce, calculating eyes. John shivered at the thought, always desperate to feel those eyes on himself, for better or for worse. At the moment, Sherlock lay sprawled out over the bed in the bedroom, slender body still enveloped in his black, winter coat and neck wrapped tight in a purple scarf. John sometimes wondered if Sherlock wore so many layers all the time because there was something about his appearance that he didn’t like, some uncertainty that lay deep down inside, where no one could ever touch it. Of course, _that_ was a mystery he would never solve. Sherlock wasn’t the type to spill his innermost insecurities to anyone.

 _Tick-tick. Tick-tick._

The clock on the mantle ticked the seconds, minutes, and hours away, almost unbearably loud, echoing painfully in the late night quiet. Every click of the pendulum tracking second by second threatened to drown out the gentle whisper of breath curling away from Sherlock’s bow-shaped lips, which momentarily parted gently and offered the smallest glimpse of his tongue. John licked his lips and blushed. How could watching someone sleep translate to something so incredibly erotic? It was almost like he’d caught Sherlock dressing and watched through the crack of a door as, unaware, his naked body was revealed to John’s eyes.

John knew when Sherlock woke, he’d spew some never-ending thought train full of facts and conclusions that ultimately led to catching the doctor in the middle of very obsessive behavior, but he had tried so many times before to drag his eyes away from Sherlock’s sleeping form and failed. He didn’t even want to look away, anymore. It was a moment that only he, John Watson, could share with Sherlock, a moment so intimate because when Sherlock slept, he was so completely and utterly vulnerable. It was like admiring a lover’s naked body or sharing a painful memory with a friend.

Bombings, murder, revenge, intrigue, death--those were all the things which composed John’s daily diet. But this—this rare glimpse, this pure moment, so simple and untouched—this was the air which John breathed.


End file.
